Silent Hills
by TJNorthern
Summary: Based on the hit playable teaser, PT, this story is a take on the cancelled horror game "Silent Hills," had it been released. This story includes and follows up the events of PT, providing an explanation and a haunting story grounded in the world of Silent Hill. It's mostly a story separate from the main Silent Hill cast, but with a few surprises along the way. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to P.T. (Playable Teaser) or the Silent Hill franchise. This is purely for nonprofit._

 _A Note to the Reader: Welcome all! This is a story based on the events of P.T. and the Silent Hill franchise, and it is intended to explore the story of Silent Hills, my adaptation of the cancelled video game based on the material revealed. With that said, this story only treats Silent Hill: Shattered Memories as canon. Enjoy!_

The dense cloud of heavy fog crept upon the street, shrouding the surroundings from view. The smoke rolled with the whistling wind, which pounded against Dawson's ears. He shivered, and pulled his jacket tighter to block the chilly air.

He took a step forward and an aluminum can clattered away from his feet. The can was but one piece from a collection of trash strewn across the pavement. A garbage bin from the sidewalk lay on its side. Another gust of wind sent the innards scattering.

An electronic crackle resounded from behind Dawson and he twisted around, hand at his hip. The startling noise was just a flickering street lamp, fighting to stay alight. The building behind it was nearly impossible to see, but multicolored lights pushed through the curtain of fog. He squinted to discern the shape of the glow when he heard a growl from an alley nearby.

His breaths came out shallow and shattered as he took a cautious step back. His heart raced. His muscles tensed. His hand gripped the holster at his hip. He could've sworn two yellow eyes watched him from the darkness.

A clatter came from the fallen trash bin and he whipped the pistol from its holster and pointed directly at the axe-wielding man behind him.

"Woah, easy there," the man spoke gruffly through a thick white beard. "What brings you out here, stranger?" He raised his hands in surrender, but didn't drop the axe.

"Back up," Dawson ordered. The man obliged. "What's with the axe?"

"I needed some firewood for the shop. What's with the pistol?"

"It's for creepy lumberjacks who try to sneak up on me." He held his gun steady at the hefty man.

"Just checkin' on the noises," he answered, grim-faced. "We don't get a lot of visitors here." The man's eyes darted back and forth, sweeping the street.

"You alright?" Dawson prodded. "You seem a little on edge."

"We should get indoors," the man said slowly, disregarding the question. "It's cold. Wouldn't wanna get sick now, would ya?" The hoarse voice made Dawson's skin crawl. There was no reason to trust this man, but the gusts of wind were stronger than ever, and he couldn't ignore the goosebumps spreading across his skin.

"You're not wrong there," he admitted. As he tucked the gun into its holster, he noticed the lumberjack lower his hands, but his muscles were still taught with uneasiness. He still scanned the street with his vision. Dawson made a mental note to never keep his hand far from his hip. "Lead the way," he instructed.

The two trekked across the street, fighting against the howling wind. They approached the glowing sign, which became more visible as it grew closer. _Hearthstone Diner_.

"Grabbing a midnight snack?" Dawson inquired.

The lumberjack swung his axe over his shoulder and held the door open. "Inside," he grunted.

"You're a talker, huh?" Following the order, Dawson walked inside, and the lumberjack followed suit. He pulled the door shut, and the lock clicked. A shiver trickled down Dawson's spine. Hyper-alert, he gauged his surroundings. Quaint diner. Four booths. A bar. Two windows, a stairwell, and a back room. At least he had escape routes.

He shook his head, placing his hands on his hips. Why was he looking for escape routes? Something about this town put him on edge in the worst way. And he couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that something was amiss.

An older lady rushed out of the back room, her apron flowing in the wind as she dashed toward them. "Sylas!" she exclaimed, waving a bony finger at the lumberjack. "It's two minutes to night hours! What are you doing outside?"

"This one. He's fresh meat."

"Oh," she replied, her face relaxing as she realized the situation. "What does he need?"

"A bed for the night," Sylas answered.

The woman gave Sylas a sour glance, tilting her head. "And does this young man have a name?"

Giving only a grunt, Sylas walked over to the bar area and grabbed himself a drink.

"It's Dawson," he answered the question himself. "Richard Dawson."

"It's a delight to meet you, Richard," she said with a toothy smile. Air leaked out of Sylas' bottle as he twisted off the cap and lazily let it drop to the floor. It rolled over to the kindly woman, who snatched it up. "That grump is Sylas. Don't let the axe fool you, he's the town teddy bear."

As if to protest, Sylas slammed the handle of his axe to the floor before resting it against the bar.

"I see," Dawson adjusted his jacket, trying to ease the uncomfortable feeling chipping away at his resolve. "And you can call me Dawson. I've always hated the name Richard."

"Any particular reason for that?" Sylas piped up.

Dawson looked at him curiously. "Personal reasons."

No doubt sensing the growing tension, the woman stepped between them and shook his hand with her yellow latex glove still clinging to her wrist. "Matilda. A pleasure." The glove was cold and moist, and he inconspicuously wiped his hand on his jeans as she continued. "Everything here is because of me. I own the place. Well, the building, not the town," she corrected. "That's a whole different mess."

"I'm guessing you have a spare room upstairs?" Dawson asked. "Because he was right; I do need a place to sleep."

She smiled almost too enthusiastically as she peeled the gloves from her wrinkled palms. "Follow me."

Dawson trailed her steps as she shuffled to the staircase. As he gave one last look around the diner, he inadvertently locked eyes with Sylas. The lumberck's stare made him extremely uncomfortable, and he hurried up the stairs two at a time.

Matilda reached a rustic wooden door at the end of the hall and handed him a key.

"Breakfast is served at seven," she informed, holding the door open. "Oh, and the bathroom's connected through that door there. Make yourself at home."

Dawson walked inside and examined the space. It was cozy enough to sleep in, even if the cobwebs made it feel decrepit. "Thank you," he said genuinely. "What's your charge?"

"Don't worry about that, dear. It's free for the night."

"Really?" he asked, and she nodded peacefully. "I can't thank you enough." It seemed too good to be true, which is why he wasn't surprised when she followed up with another question.

"One more thing," she interjected. "A young man shows up here with no belongings, half a name, and a gun in his belt." He flinched in surprise. How could she have known about the gun hidden beneath his jacket? Her ancient eyes hid more wisdom than he'd thought. "What brings you to this town, dear?" She gazed at him blankly, not revealing any hint of an expression. Just a dead stare.

He sighed, and took a seat on the bed. "I'm a private investigator," he admitted, swiping his bangs out of his eyes. "I live down south in Dallas. But a client reported a missing person all the way up here. I did some hitchhiking, and here I am."

She soaked up every detail of his story, clearly mulling over every detail. I see. And who is this person?"

His brain battled against itself. Unable to decide on a way to avoid the question, he settled for the truth.

"Jarith," Dawson answered. "His name is Jarith."

He could have imagined it, but he swore he saw a flash of panic in her face. And then, it vanished as expeditiously as it had appeared.

"Ah," she mumbled. "I see." Without wasting another moment, she walked out, pulling the door behind her. "Enjoy your stay," she croaked, and she shut the door with a _thud._

A single window allowed the moonlight in through the thick shades. Dawson drew them back, only to be met with two thick wooden boards obscuring most of the view. But between them, he still could see out into the foggy streets. He saw the streetlight flicker. A ladder on a fire escape creaked as it swung freely on its hinges. A sudden gust of wind whistled through the dead trees and dispelled some of the fog, revealing the wicked forest on the outskirts of the town. And looming ominously over the crumbling entrance road, a single sign stood tall.

WELCOME TO SILENT HILL


	2. Chapter 2

Watch out. The gap in the door.

It's a separate reality.

The only me is me.

Are you sure the only you is you?

The first thing Dawson noticed was the smell. The staleness of the air reeked like rotting fish. It was a thick, humid smell, one that drained his energy with every breath.

The next surprise came from the coarse, cold surface pressing against his body. He was lying facedown on a stone floor coated in dirt and grime. Fighting through his exhaustion, he forced his eyes open, and gasped. He instinctively shot to his feet, vexed by his surroundings. The room encasing him was made completely of stone. There were no windows. There was no furniture. Nothing. Only a lone wooden door standing directly before him. Baffled, Dawson struggled to recall the night before.

He remembered the Hearthstone Diner, and Silent Hill. The conversations with Sylas and Matilda were still clear in his mind. The most recent moment he could envision was when he fell asleep in the guest bedroom. How did he get here? Had he been kidnapped?

 _I'm wearing my jacket again,_ he thought, recalling the exact moment when he'd balled it up and tossed it to the bedroom floor. He felt the uneven weight on his hip. _And the gun, too._

The room was only illuminated by a dim amber-colored lightbulb. It buzzed erratically, the noise deafening in the stone prison. The light caught on the stone in an odd way, catching Dawson's sight. Moving closer to the wall, he brushed his fingertips against the surface, and felt nearly-symmetrical lines scratched into the rock. They were tally marks. Covering every surface in the room from top to bottom. Thousands of the wicked lines left not an inch of blank space, he noticed.

"What the f—"

A creak came from the door, and he froze. He didn't see it move, but the heavy door was now slightly ajar and light leaked through the crevice, brightening the room. Every fiber of his being warned him not to open the door, but he didn't have a choice. Dawson swiftly approached the door. He gripped the door handle, his knuckles white. Holding his breath, he slowly pushed the door open, praying nothing was waiting for him on the other side.

And his prayers were answered. The area he entered was a hallway, one that was seemingly empty. It appeared to be the inside of a suburban family home. The hall led to a corner, and other than the door behind him, there was no other path to take. He walked cautiously down the hallway, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. The beige walls were adorned with peculiar paintings, paintings that seemed to be of nothing. One was an image of dead leaves, and another was a painting of the cloudy gray sky. None of the other pictures seemed to make sense, and yet they hung on the walls like prized possessions. Halfway down the stretch was a small alcove that held more eerie photos, a potted plant, and a small digital clock above the nightstand that read 23:59. Of which day? Dawson couldn't remember.

He pressed onward, his hand at his hip.

"AS THE CONGRESSIONAL DEBATE OVER—"

Dawson nearly screamed. He instantly flattened himself against the wall, not prepared to see the source of the blaring voice around the corner.

"UP YET AGAIN, WE REGRET TO REPORT—"

He poked his head around the corner, and swore under his breath. It was a radio! A goddamned radio! He should've guessed. The male voice was distorted by a layer of static, and it was intercut with high-pitched electronic whine.

"THE MURDER OF THE WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN BY THEIR HUSBAND AND FATHER."

Dawson approached the radio, passing a row of tall windows on his left and a closed door on his right. He checked it in passing, and the handle didn't budge.

"THE FATHER PURCHASED THE RIFLE USED IN THE CRIME AT HIS LOCAL GUNSTORE TWO DAYS EARLIER."

The noise blasted his eardrums as he got closer, and he grabbed the volume dial, turning it down to a more reasonable level. The radio sat atop a dresser, one that also held a phone, and two framed, black-and-white pictures.

"THIS BRUTAL KILLING TOOK PLACE WHILE THE FAMILY WAS GATHERED AT HOME ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON."

Jesus. His gut reaction was to shut off the radio. But the morbid story had piqued his interest, so instead he paid closer attention.

"THE DAY OF THE CRIME, THE FATHER WENT TO THE TRUNK OF HIS CAR, RETRIEVED THE RIFLE, AND SHOT HIS WIFE AS SHE WAS CLEANING UP THE KITCHEN AFTER LUNCH. WHEN HIS TEN-YEAR-OLD SON CAME TO INVESTIGATE THE COMMOTION, THE FATHER SHOT HIM, TOO. HIS SIX-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER HAD THE GOOD SENSE TO HIDE IN THE BATHROOM, BUT REPORTS SUGGEST HE LURED HER OUT BY TELLING HER IT WAS JUST A GAME. THE GIRL WAS FOUND SHOT ONCE IN THE CHEST FROM POINT-BLANK RANGE. THE MOTHER, WHO HE SHOT IN THE STOMACH, WAS PREGNANT AT THE TIME."

The announcer read the story as if it were nothing but fluff news. But the broadcast chilled Dawson to the core. He looked away, trying to find an escape. He noticed a balcony above him, but it was much too high for him to reach. He turned around, and his heart raced with excitement.

The front door! He thanked his lucky stars and walked up to the door, pulling at the handle. But it didn't budge. He twisted harder, clutching the metal with all his strength, but still nothing. "Damn it!" he cursed, and kicked the door with his boot, but the door was unmoved.

"POLICE ARRIVING ON-SCENE AFTER NEIGHBORS CALLED 911 FOUND THE FATHER IN HIS CAR, LISTENING TO THE RADIO."

He kicked the door again. And again. The wood didn't even crack.

"SEVERAL DAYS BEFORE THE MURDERS, NEIGHTBORS SAY THEY HEARD THE FATHER REPEATING A SEQUENCE OF NUMBERS IN A LOUD VOICE. THEY SAID IT WAS LIKE HE WAS CHANTING SOME STRANGE SPELL."

"Screw it," Dawson muttered. He went back to the windows, and found them reinforced with metal bars on the outside of the glass. Peering out of the glass was hopeless, as the only visible sight was the blackness of night. He was alone.

The radio broadcast reached its end, and only static remained. It blasted loudly, blaring once again. Didn't he turn that down? He walked back over to the radio and spotted the red power dial. He reached to turn it off, when it blared:

 **"DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW. WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED."**

Dawson jumped back, recoiling his hand. The voice, entirely different from the news reporter, seemed to cut through all of the static. It couldn't have been part of the same transmission. It... _reacted._ He slowly backed away, his hand shaking before him. Escape couldn't come quickly enough.

The only path he hadn't tried yet was the stairwell at the end of the hall, leading to a basement door. The descent beckoned to him, whispering an ominous call. Nothing about this made any sense. He knew nearly nothing. But somehow, he knew this was the path he had to take. And he knew that the nightmare was far from over.


End file.
